The Agonist Journal


My baby blue vintage trashcan is
built of dreams sturdy

as its good American steel.
Decaled, happy scenes:

a young woman, head held high,
pushes a baby stroller.

Her wide-brim hat sports
a flower and bow.

A couple rides a bicycle built for two,
an insistent goose follows,

My trashcan has a gleaming

inner life. Step on its shiny pedal,
the chrome lid flips up

with a little clang—
yet the trashcan keeps

its secrets still:
when its mouth flies open

it doesn’t invite the whole
damn world in.